Arms and the Women Read Online Free PDF Page A

guard commander said nothing but squatted beside him. They had to lean into the wind to avoid being blown backwards and from time to time their faces were lashed with salt water as the ocean rose to new heights of fury in its efforts to wash the climber free.
Minutes passed. The watchers didn't move. They had had years to learn that patience too is one of the great military arts.
Finally the sentry's face began to show his suspicion that the sea must after all have won its battle against the climbing Greek. He glanced at the guard commander. But his was a face as jagged and pocked as a city wall after long siege, and quite unreadable at the best of times, so the sentry didn't risk speaking and returned to his watch.
A few moments later he was glad of his self-restraint. A new sound drifted up the cliff face amidst the lash of water and howl of wind. It was the noise of laboured breathing, getting closer.
The sentry began to smile in happy anticipation. He decided not just to slit the throat but to have a go at taking the whole head off. It would be fun to go back into the camp and toss it down among his half-waking comrades and say negligently, 'Got myself another Greek while you idle sods were sleeping.'
The breathing was loud now. The sentry moved his position so that he was right above it. An arm like a small tree trunk was swung up to rest on the edge of the cliff, and then a shag of salt-caked hair appeared, and finally the man's head came fully into view and a pair of deep-sunk, intensely blue eyes took in the waiting men.
'How do, chuck,' said the Greek.
The sentry rocked forward on his toes and shot out his left hand to grab the grizzled hair. But quick as he moved, the Greek was quicker. His other hand came into view, grasping a large jagged clamshell. It snaked out almost faster than the eye could follow, and the next moment the sentry's left wrist was slit through to the bone.
He fell backward, shrieking. His right hand released his sword as he grasped the gaping wound to staunch the spurting blood. The Greek dropped the shell and reached out to pick up the fallen weapon. Then a heavy-shod foot crashed down on his forearm and pinned it to the ground.
He looked up at the unreadably rugged face of the guard commander and smiled through his tangle of beard.
'Thanks, chuck,' he said. 'Saved me from a nasty fall.'
'Kill the bastard, Commander,' urged the ashen-faced sentry. 'Chop his fucking arm right off!'
The commander was aware of the blue eyes fixed quizzically on his face as he debated the matter.
'Not yet,' he said finally. 'Not till we know if there are any more of his kind about. Besides, the men need cheering up after what's happened recently, and I reckon a clever old Greek like this will take a long time dying.'
'Long as you like, Captain,' said the Greek. 'I'm in no hurry whatsoever. I'll
 
'Shit,' said Ellie Pascoe.
Through the open window of the boxroom which she refused to dignify with the name study she had heard a car turning into their short drive.
She finished reading, take as long as ever you like.', pressed Save to preserve her corrections and went to the window.
A man and a woman were getting out of the car and heading for the front door.
'Hello,' called Ellie.
This voice from above made them start like guilty things surprised, and the woman dropped her car keys.
Perhaps they think it's the voice of God, thought Ellie.
Or perhaps (one thought leading to another) they think they are the voice of God.
'If you're Witnesses,' she called, 'I think I should tell you we're all communist satanists here. I'll be happy to send you some of our literature.'
'Mrs Pascoe?' said the woman. 'Mrs Ellie Pascoe?'
She didn't look like a Witness. And Witnesses didn't drive big BMWs.
A pair of assertions as unsupported as a Hottentot's tits (she plucked the phrase from her collection of Andy Dalziel memorabilia), but evidence is what we look for when intuition fails (one of her constabulary-baiting own).
'Hang on. I'll